


Acta, non verba

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [18]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: (Alfie gets wingman'd by his dog), (still ecstatic over the fact that Cyril has his own character tag), Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, This is just straight up porn, look i don't know what to tell you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 06:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20596010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: The point he’s trying to make is this: For Tommy Shelby to show up and immediately ask for a glass of water is… very fucking strange. Might not seem like it, but it is and Alfie is not quite worried yet, but very puzzled. (Cyril completely agrees with him on this one. Alfie can tell.)In which some people haven't seen each other in over a month.(This is a sorta, kinda sequel to "Vox audita" but it's very self-explanatory.)





	Acta, non verba

In retrospect, Alfie thinks, the first clue should have been the water.

The strange, stilted conversation alone could have given him a hint, possibly, except that could’ve been explained away by a number of other things – first and foremost, Tommy having something on his mind – but the water, that one is bloody damning. Because Tommy Shelby usually never deigns to consume anything but alcohol if you don’t repeatedly offer it to him first; and even then one has to be very discreet about, very inconspicuous, or he’ll think you're trying to patronize him, which might be a ridiculous state of affairs, Alfie won’t deny that, but that doesn’t change anything about the facts.

The point he’s trying to make is this: For Tommy Shelby to show up and immediately ask for a glass of water is… very fucking strange. Might not seem like it, but it _is _and Alfie is not quite worried yet, but very puzzled. (Cyril completely agrees with him on this one. Alfie can tell.) So now they’re both standing around in Alfie’s kitchen, watching Tommy halfheartedly sip on some water like he’s trying to decide whether the taste is off or not, because he’s worried it might be poisoned.

Well. As a matter of fact, Cyril is sat down at the moment, but it’s the principle of the thing.

The water question was the second thing out of his mouth, right after the obligatory “Evening, Alfie”, which doesn’t count, because well, Tommy says that to everybody, doesn’t he. (Not the name part, obviously, but the greeting itself.) Alfie absentmindedly scratches between Cyril’s ears, tries to decipher the picture. Tommy, cigarette in hand, intently watches him do it. They haven’t seen each other in almost a month.

And the thing is, Alfie thinks, the thing is, right, that the last time they’ve actually spoken on the phone has been _eventful, _hasn’t it, which might be the issue, here. Maybe Tommy’s embarrassed about it. Maybe he’s embarrassed about _not_ being embarrassed about it. Who fucking knows, really – with Tommy it’s very hard to tell, sometimes.

He’s looking at Alfie now, somewhat expectantly and says, “Well?” like he’s already asked a question and is expecting an answer. (Which he hasn’t, right, hasn’t done anything of the sort, but it’s not like that seems to matter at all.)

“Well?” Alfie echoes back, honestly kind of baffled.

“Not gonna say anything tonight?”

Which is… completely unfair, on the one hand, because it’s not like _Tommy’s_ fucking said anything until now. But on the other hand it’s fair enough, actually, because between the two of them, if there’s somebody who’s bound to do the lion’s share of the talking, that person is usually not going to be Tommy Shelby, now is it. It’s just… the water, Alfie thinks. The water threw him off. So now they have been standing here for the better part of five minutes in complete silence and yeah, it is pretty weird, even by their standards.

“Oh, yeah, no, apologies, mate. Let me try that again, yeah?” He makes a big production of straightening up, coughs into his fist like he’s about to give a speech, just for good measure. “Hello, sweetie, lovely evening it is we’re having. Right? How was the drive?”

That earns him an eyeroll, but nevertheless, Tommy’s shoulders seem to relax a bit. He puts the glass down, leans back against the cupboard he’s standing in front of, takes a long, slow drag of his cigarette.

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Mate?” Alfie says, mock-surprised. “M’not supposed to call you _mate_ anymore? Why didn’t you say something sooner, had no idea-”

“Fucking _Christ,”_ Tommy mutters under his breath, clearly annoyed, but now it seems that the ice has started to melt a bit. Fucking finally. Alfie wants to say something else, but Cyril headbutts his knee, probably because Alfie’s hand has stopped moving, so Alfie has to go “Yeah, yeah, here we go, hm?” instead and start stroking his head again.

“This is going to be a strange question,” Tommy says. It seems like he’s finally worked up the nerve to say whatever it is that has been on his mind since he set foot in the house.

“So what,” Alfie says.

“You remember…” Tommy starts, then stops, then stares down at his almost-finished cigarette. “The telephone. You… remember that, right?”

It would be impossible to guess what he’s talking about just by listing to his voice – there’s no inflection there, no indication that _the telephone_ might possibly, most likely, refer to the time Alfie talked him into (and then _through) _finishing himself off during a late-night phone call not too long ago. Either that, or Alfie’s missing something vitally important, here. He considers making a sarcastic remark and decides against it. (Initial suspicion was the right one, he thinks, not sure whether to be satisfied about that or not.)

“Do remember that, mate, yeah,” is what he says instead.

Tommy nods. He’s now looking around for an ashtray that doesn’t exist, at least not in the kitchen, and then puts what is left of his cigarette into his half-empty glass of water. Sometimes Alfie seriously questions why he even wants to sleep with this man. Except then Tommy’s attention focuses back on him again – now clearly a bit at a loss for what to do with his hands, so he neatly folds them in front of his body, pale fingers interlacing, and he’s all sharp angles and pretty blue eyes – and yeah, Alfie thinks, all right.

Sometimes he doesn’t question it at all.

“You said something,” Tommy says.

Alfie makes an amused noise at that, can’t even help it. “I did, yeah. Thank you for noticing, mate, that was the whole point of the exercise, hm? Wasn’t it.”

“Yes, but that’s not what I… you _asked_ me something.”

There is a moment of silence. Alfie waits for some additional information and realizes he won’t be given any. Crosses his arms in front of his chest, just to do something, and mirrors Tommy’s current position by leaning against the kitchen table.

“Gonna need something else to go on, here, mate.”

Tommy stares at him like he’s convinced Alfie is doing this on purpose, just to irritate him, which… it’s not like Alfie _hasn’t _done that in the past, because yeah, he does find it amusing sometimes. (That’s not a fucking crime, now is it.) But he’s definitely not doing it know.

“About how… if I ever… you know?”

“No, I do not, in fact, _know,”_ Alfie says and it might be a bit rude to start ranting right now, but based on past experiences, Tommy seems to almost… calm down, once Alfie really gets into it, or maybe forget what he was nervous about in the first place because he’s too busy being annoyed, or something. It strangely tends to work out in everybody’s favor, is the point, because Alfie _also_ really likes going off on certain tangents, doesn’t he, because _he_ finds it soothing, too. “Because for that? Yeah? I’d have to have even the faintest fucking idea what you’re on about mate, don’t I. So I don’t know, right, because you’re not fucking telling me what it is I’m supposed to know about.”

Tommy looks down at the ground for second after that, takes a deep breath.

“About me,” he says then, almost reluctantly. “…fucking somebody in my office.”

Alfie has to think back for a moment, remembers the question in, well… question and nods.

“Yeah, mate,” he says, even though he’s still not sure where this is going. “I _do_ know about that.”

“Right,” Tommy says and now he’s stuffed one hand deep into his pocket, reaching for his packet of cigarettes again. “So, I mean… have _you_ ever…?”

“What,” Alfie says dryly. “Fucked somebody in _your_ office? Listen, mate – and I’m gonna go out on a limb here, right, well aware of that – I do very much fuckin’ hope you’d notice if I, yeah, if I was in there on a regular basis, fucking other people.”

Tommy stops what he’s currently doing, cigarette in hand, and stares at him, so obviously exasperated it would be almost comical if the main subject wasn’t about fucking. (Which means Alfie is at least going to _try_ and take this seriously, because it’s been a bloody _month._ He’s not an idiot.)

“You ever fuck anybody in _your_ office?”

“Did I ever…” Alfie repeats, just to play for a bit of time, really, because the thing is… well. The honest answer to that question would be _yes,_ or maybe, if you wanted to put a more diplomatic spin on it, _yes, kind of,_ depending on the definition of the word. “Well, I mean…”

Next to him, Cyril does one quiet, little whoof – trying to warn him, probably, which is definitely appreciated. Alfie has always felt that under most circumstances, the truth is an overrated concept anyway. So he shrugs and says, “No. Can’t say I have, mate.” without giving it a second thought.

“No?” Tommy says, and Alfie’s not entirely sure if he bought that answer, but he doesn’t press the issue, which is something. Alfie shrugs again.

“Nahh,” he says. “Why?”

Tommy purses his lips, looks down at the floor again – and now Alfie can maybe, possibly, see where this is headed, but he’s not going to be dumb enough to fucking jinx it in his own head, is he – and then Tommy clears his throat, and then he says, still sounding kind of rough, “Do you… want to?”

“What,” Alfie says, eyebrows going up. “Right now?”

“Well, if this is a bad time for you,” Tommy says, completely serious. “I can come back later, eh? Should I leave you to it?”

And he looks so fucking impeccable as he says it, doesn’t he – suit, hair, posture, everything, right down to the way he’s holding the unlit cigarette between his fingers. Everything is in place, face a mask of polite disinterest, aloof and untouchable. Except that’s not true, Alfie thinks, not true at all, now is it, and he’s closing the distance between them before he’s even made a conscious decision about it; because fuck it, Tommy’s _here,_ in his kitchen, looking like _this,_ and it’s been a _month._

Tommy doesn’t move a muscle as he crowds close, which is how they both know he’s fine with this, _wants_ this, really. He tips his head back just a bit, movement almost imperceptible, gaze fixed on Alfie’s mouth – and the thing is, Alfie realizes, if they start this right here, right now, it’s probably going to end right here as well, because he’d like to think he knows himself and he definitely knows _this…_ dynamic, thing, whatever it is they’re doing, pretty well by this point, and they’re not exactly shining examples of self-control.

(Well. Tommy might be, on a day to day basis, but not as far as any actual fucking is concerned.)

He’s clearly expecting Alfie to kiss him, or do something along those lines at the very least, so when instead Alfie says “Office, was it? Hm?” the entire thing derails almost immediately, because Tommy’s mouth twists, visibly displeased (even though it was _his_ bloody idea), which has no fucking right to be _this_ attractive, because he is making the exact same expression a sulking child would make, disgusted with whatever decision it wasn’t included in, and Alfie has to practically force himself not to shove one hand down his pants right then and there.

“Fine,” Tommy says, like he’s the one doing Alfie a favor, unreasonable and superfluous as it may be. “Lead the way.”

They almost make it there, too – Alfie spending most of the way trying to remember whether he left out anything important on his desk. (Should be fine, he thinks, and even if it isn’t… fuck it. It’s been a _month.) _But when they’re standing in front of the door, Tommy suddenly says, _“Never,_ eh?” and Alfie says, “What?”, like he doesn’t know what Tommy’s referring to, and Tommy says, all in a rush, “Don’t have to bloody _lie_ about it-”

And that is it, they’re _done,_ because Alfie is already turning towards him, maybe to lie some more, he’s not even sure, but then it doesn’t matter anyway, because their _kissing._ God, Alfie thinks, fucking finally, and then he stops thinking completely, because Tommy is digging his fingers into the back of Alfie’s neck and Alfie just _has_ to push him up against the door, couldn’t stop himself if he tried.

They stay there for what feels like an eternity, clutching at each other, mouths working. At some point, Alfie has to break the kiss – he’s got an arm wrapped around Tommy’s waist by now, though he’s still pressing him back against the door, which means Tommy has to arch his back a little, which in turn tilts his hips forward, which means they’re rocking against each other already.

“The fuck am I lying about, then,” Alfie murmurs into the small pocket of space between them. “Hm? Fuckin’ tell me-”

Tommy grabs the collar of Alfie’s shirt in his fist, drags him forward and kisses him again, hard and impatient and _fuck,_ Alfie _wants_ him, wants to keep him close like this and absolutely ruin him. He fumbles for the door handle; barely even manages to keep them from just toppling over once he’s managed to open the bloody thing.

Now they’re inside the room Alfie just keeps going, shoving Tommy backwards in the general direction of where he knows the desk must be. They’re halfheartedly trying to take their clothes off, opening buttons and pulling at fabric, and then Alfie’s patience seems to just… run out. He pushes his hand between them, gropes Tommy’s hardening cock over his trousers and the small, frantic noise Tommy makes at the touch has him run so hot it feels like his blood is boiling.

“Off,” he manages. “Fuckin’ take these _off-”_

Both of them are busy with Tommy’s trousers after that, unbuttoning his fly and tugging his suspenders off his shoulders.

“Shoes,” Tommy says just as Alfie is shoving everything down to his thighs, breathless as anything. “Wait, I can’t, still got-”

“Get on the fuckin’… thing,” Alfie rasps and then doesn’t even wait for Tommy to comply, just pushes him back against the edge of it until Tommy takes the hint and lifts himself up to sit on top of the desk. Something falls over, pencils and pens clattering everywhere. Alfie grabs the guest chair almost as an afterthought, drags it over and sits down on it, and starts to unlace Tommy’s shoes. He has to really focus on the task, can’t bring himself to look anywhere else, because if he so much as starts staring at Tommy now – shirt hanging open, cock well on its way to being hard, pale legs sprawling everywhere – _fuck,_ even in Alfie’s peripheral vision he is a fucking _sight. _

He drops the shoes without caring where they land, pulls everything off Tommy’s legs and flings it away without looking.

“Fuck,” Tommy says and he’s clutching at the edge of the desk now, staring at Alfie like something caught in the headlights (not a deer, because he looks way too indecent for that), chest rising and falling unsteadily. His eyes are very blue and his lips are red and wet from kissing and his cock is literally just… _right_ fucking there. Alfie drags the chair close, closer, as close at it can go and wraps a possessive arm around one of Tommy’s thighs and then he _has_ to put his mouth on him, couldn’t stop himself if his life depended on it.

“Oh, Jesus-” Tommy breathes when Alfie licks a long, languorous stripe up his cock, before he presses the flat of his tongue against the head, and goes completely and utterly still, muscles locking up tight. Alfie keeps licking at him, can feel him hardening the rest of the way under his tongue, until he’s actually trembling with it. God, Alfie could do this forever – _would_ do this forever, almost, if he didn’t enjoy making him come just as much.

All the tension falls away once Alfie swallows him down. Tommy says, “Fuck, oh-” like he’s surprised and then everything loosens up – his legs fall open, one of them heavy against Alfie’s arm. Alfie hums, satisfied, which makes Tommy draw in a shuddering breath, so Alfie does it again. Tommy starts moving with him then, not so much bucking up into his mouth as rolling his hips forward, panting audibly.

Alfie rubs his tongue against him, flicking at the sensitive spot right underneath the head.

“Fuuuuck,” Tommy says again, more exhale than an actual word. He shifts a bit – even though he can’t really move any closer to the edge of the table without falling off – and puts his bare foot on the armrest of the chair all by himself. Probably because it’s a more comfortable position to be in, Alfie thinks, a bit dazed, but it also opens his legs up a lot more; one is now higher than the other, because the chair and consequently the armrest are so very fucking close to the table already, Tommy’s knee bent at an angle, and on instinct, Alfie puts a hand to the thigh of his other leg, the one still touching the ground, and drags his palm downwards until he can dig his fingers into the hollow of Tommy’s knee.

Tommy hisses at that, caught somewhere between pleasure and pain and then Alfie wraps his hand around and _pulls _– pulls his leg right out under him, Tommy saying “What, what are you-” like he’s irritated. He starts to topple, of course, because Alfie is lifting his leg up high, which makes him tip backwards with a startled noise. He has to catch himself with his hands pressed flat to the desktop, arms out straight behind him.

Which really isn’t Alfie’s problem, now is it, because he’s too busy hoisting Tommy’s leg over his left shoulder, so now he’s really on display, legs wide, muscles in his stomach drawing taut.

“Fucking- _Christ,”_ Tommy pants, before his arms buckle and he drops down onto his elbows. The fall of his upper body pushes his hips up very nicely and Alfie hums again, which makes Tommy uselessly try to bite back a moan.

Alfie really goes for it after that, swallowing around him and hollowing his cheeks even more. Everything is wet and messy and perfect, and he _could_ draw this out, he thinks, static buzzing in his head, could make this last, make him wait for it, make him _really_ want it, but at the same time he _can’t,_ doesn’t have half the patience for it. Later, he decides, feeling dazed. They can do that later. Right now, his own cock feels so hard it almost hurts, still trapped inside his trousers, and Tommy is making those small, helpless noises he always makes when he’s close to losing it and doesn’t have anything to hide behind – nothing to bite or press his mouth against, and not even a hand free to make himself stay quiet.

Except just as soon as Alfie has finished that thought, there is another noise and another shift and when he forces himself to pay attention, Tommy has withdrawn his elbows and goes down the rest of the way, now lying flush against the desktop, both his hands clamped over his own mouth. The shift brings another change in angle as well and suddenly there’s enough space to grab at his arse – so Alfie does, really digging his fingers in, and Tommy makes a loud, muffled noise at that, which has to be one of the hottest things Alfie has ever heard.

He presses one of this thumbs up against the spot behind his balls, where the skin is thin and sensitive, the other one against his hole. Rubs at it slickly with the help of his own spit, still dripping down, moving and sucking at his cock and Tommy makes another choked-off noise and comes. Doesn’t even have the decency to warn Alfie first, which isn’t a big deal, really, because it’s fucking obvious what’s going to happen anyway, just from the way his legs tense up again, from the way he tries to buck up into Alfie’s mouth. And he tries to keep quiet, Alfie can fucking _tell,_ but there’s still this low, helpless groan as he floods Alfie’s mouth.

Alfie tries to swallow everything down, salty taste in the back of his throat – doesn’t quite manage it and lets the rest just spill out of his mouth, because Tommy is a fucking mess anyway. When Alfie finally pulls off, they’re both panting. He puts his head against the inside of Tommy’s thigh, still drapedover his shoulder – and then he can’t stop himself from licking at that too, before he starts sucking a mark into delicate skin there on impulse, using his teeth. Somewhere above him, Tommy makes a shocked noise, leg twitching, instinctively trying to move away and Alfie grabs him, hooks a hand under his knee again and keeps it in place, keeps going.

_“Christ,_ Jesus _fuck-”_ Tommy says, the beginning of that whine to his voice that makes Alfie want to do unspeakable things to him, each and every time without fail, and struggles upright. The change in position takes his leg away from Alfie’s mouth automatically, sliding off his shoulder, so Alfie gives in and lets go, pushes himself up from his chair and kisses him instead.

Tommy wraps an arm around his shoulders immediately, probably for balance as much as anything, because Alfie is not being too careful and Tommy still seems kind of shaky, his other hand unerringly reaching for Alfie’s fly. Alfie pushes his tongue into his mouth, making him taste himself. He has to break away when Tommy reaches inside, pulls Alfie’s leaking cock out of his trousers, and starts stroking him, tortuously slow, almost like an afterthought.

Alfie lets him do it, breathing becoming ragged; sways forward and into Tommy, content to just… touch as much skin as he can reach, one hand curled around the back of his neck, thumb caressing where the hair is almost entirely shaved off and whisper-soft. They’re kissing deeply, carelessly, Tommy’s hand picking up the pace, sighing against Alfie’s mouth time and time again, even though – he’s the one that already came, Alfie thinks, with a sudden, delayed realization that makes his cock throb.

He _did,_ he came and now he’s a fucking _mess,_ that boy, everything shaky and sticky and spent, and Alfie’s just going to come _all over that, _just fucking… _add_ to it, because Tommy will let him do that, will let Alfie mark him and claim him, right here on Alfie’s bloody _office desk,_ oh fucking hell-

He bites at Tommy’s lower lip, hand coming around to the front of his neck automatically, curling over his throat, forcing his head back and up, so Alfie can lick into his mouth while he… fucking _comes, oh hell…_

He almost doubles over with how good it feels, has to plant his free hand on top of the desk to keep upright, panting against the spot where Tommy’s neck meets his shoulder while Tommy clutches at him; coming hot and messy and fucking _everywhere, _which is immensely satisfying on a very primal level. He stays where is until he’s good and done, forehead pressed against Tommy’s shoulder.

_“Never_ done anything in here before,” he says, eventually, a bit muffled and even though it’s not _technically_ true, he absolutely means it. He straightens up with some effort, so they can actually look at each other. “Yeah? You hear me?”

Tommy sighs, a deeply satisfied sound, and blinks at him with his pretty blue eyes and, after regarding Alfie with an unreadable expression for a few seconds, says, “Fine.” 

They end up back in the kitchen eventually, because they’re both hungry – turns out Tommy hasn’t eaten anything yet, either. It’s a ridiculous fucking situation, because Tommy just cleans himself off at the kitchen sink, perfunctory, splashing water everywhere in the process; and after that they just stand there, slumped over the kitchen table, with their shoulders touching, and eat bread by ripping off pieces with their bare hands without even bothering to use a knife, and dunking it directly into a jar of jam from time to time.

“So,” Alfie says after a while, still chewing. “Welcome back to London, mate.”

“Already been here the whole day,” Tommy says, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah,” Alfie says, pensively. “But now you’ve seen my office, yeah? Haven’t you.”

“Seen your office before,” Tommy says. He reaches for the glass of jam, with one hand, carefully dipping his piece of bread into it.

“That is true, mate,” Alfie says. What he really wants to do is go to bed, because it has been a long day, and he is kind of tired. (And also Tommy is here, so there is that.) But it’s the principle of the thing. “That is true, yeah. But if you think about, right, there are a lot of _other-”_

“M’not fucking you in the pantry,” Tommy says, with his mouth full. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Is that right,” Alfie says, not bothered in the slightest.

According to this statement, every _other_ room in the house is fair game, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, man, this just wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it down. So there, lol.  
It has a pretentious Latin title because its prequel also has a pretentious Latin title, so don't come at me please. I'm keenly aware of any overall title-pretentiousness. (Fun fact: I just wanted to write some quick PWP, and it _still_ took 2000 words to get to the porn. I mean... seriously? )
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
